


Mutantes Sans Frontières

by psylocke



Category: Captain Britain and MI: 13, Marvel (Comics), Marvel 616, X-Men (Comicverse)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-11-05
Updated: 2014-01-02
Packaged: 2017-12-31 15:18:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 13,047
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1033222
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/psylocke/pseuds/psylocke
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sworn to protect those in need, Mutants Without Borders, a charitable organization founded by Warren Worthington, assembles a team of doctors, specialists, and mutants to defend those that need defending in a world where the X-Men are the problem, not the solution. [Nano2013]</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. I.i: only fools rush in

**Author's Note:**

> As mentioned in the summary, this work constitutes my NaNoWriMo 2013 submission. I've never done fanworks for it, but I'm trying to not view it as such in my head -- though this is being written in narrative form, I'm envisioning it as a comic in my head, using it to better understand the pacing and restrictions of the genre: I'll likely be adapting this for ScriptFrenzy, or earlier, should I find the drive to write script formatting. 
> 
> Like with most NaNo pieces, it is unedited, sometimes choppy and rushed -- please forgive typos, mistakes, or continuity errors (I'm not caught up on all of these character's lives post Marvel Now, but I'm doing my best to research where I can).
> 
> And, yes, Faiza working apart from Dane will be explained. Sometime in Act 3.

Contrary to what it said on her dating profile, she was not a very patient woman. She was capable of being understand, when the situation required it, but there was a certain level of indifference required to do what she did on a daily basis. “— Listen, Mister… what can I call you?” she asked with an indignant tilt of the head. “Panther. As much as I appreciate being flown to London, and the accommodations were better than anything I could afford, I think you’re wasting your time with me. I’m not what you think I am.”

He smirked at her. “T’Challa,” he replied simply. His figure was more imposing than she first anticipated it to be. The Black Panther, at least the one envisioned in her mind, was a slight man, quick on his feet and to the draw. In person, however, he seemed somehow larger, bulkier — too bulky to carry on with the sort of adventures he got himself into. “And I think you’re wrong, Doctor Reyes.”

Doctor. That wasn’t a word she heard used much anymore. “It’s just Miss Reyes. Or Cecilia, that’s perfectly fine, too.”

“As I’m led to understand it, you’ve earned your doctorates, have you not?”

Now it was her turn to smirk, to lay it on just a little too thick. “I was out of the practice a bit too long, lapsed on my training. Technically being a doctor doesn’t make a person a doctor. You wouldn’t ask a children’s physician to perform brain surgery, would you?”

T’Challa leaned in, arm crooked on the table, some swagger in his movements. He was not an inherently pompous man, considering he was the ruler—was it King?—of one of the world’s most industrious, successful nations. “Nobody is asking you to play brain surgeon.”

“I’m going to tell you what I’ve told the X-Men a hundred times now: I don’t want to be a superhero.” There was a sense of finality to her words, but at the end came a pause, one of doubt and sobriety. She may have told them that a hundred times, and she meant it in its entirety, but somehow they always found a way to circumvent those boundaries. She’d donned that cap more times than she could remember, some of them she’d permanently blocked from her memories. 

Her words apparently meant as little to him as they did to the team. “I’m definitely not asking you to be a superhero. The world is tired of superheroes. We’re big. We’re messy. We’ve fought amongst ourselves more in the past decade than any one group should. Instead of being allies, we’ve made enemies out of our friends, our brothers and sisters, our husbands and wives.” He paused for a poignant silence, though betrayed no emotion on his face. “I stood behind Mutantes Sans Frontières when it was just a fledgling organization because I saw the promise of hope. A return to a world without the capes and kevlar. Nothing big, nothing flashy, simply small and succinct. A team whose only goal is to help people, and whose only obligation is the goodwill of mutantkind. You wouldn’t be a superhero, Doctor Reyes, but you’d get to be a hero.”

—— —— ——

_Focus. Run. Jump. Duck. Punch. Breathe. Relax. Repeat._

There were days even the Danger Room seemed tame in comparison to the real world. Bad days, filled with guns and violence and more blood than any one person should see in their lifetime. Nothing they trained for in the comfort of the mansion could prepare them for the true horrors of war, she’d as much as seen it on their faces. Broken children, forever scarred by reality when it came crashing through the ceiling and stealing away their friends in the dead of night. 

Joanna Cargill was not a woman to mix pity with remorse. She lamented the loss of innocence, but could not feel sorry for them — it was going to happen sooner or later, it always did. If she coddled those who needed coddling, they would never learn. Never grow. Never adapt. They would never get a second chance to prove themselves to the world that they were more than their fears. 

One body barely had time to hit the ground before she sent another sprawling back. Her movements were fluid as the ocean, her mind perfectly clear as she made every decision in split-second time. Taking a step away from the action, watching it from a distance, it looked muddled and confused, a circus of action, but there was deliberation in her quarter-turns, her uppercuts. A distinct grace, one camouflaged by the force of a warrior. 

“This is your last chance to surrender him,” she said, stepping over one of the bodies, looking down the barren clearing to the three men still standing. They carried guns — men like that always carried guns. Even looking down the ends of their barrels, she felt no fear. Her fingers prepared to ball once more into fists, thumbs pressing down against flesh to crack each knuckle in turn. “He’s one of yours. You’ve got him caged up like an animal. For what? Making your crops grow faster? Ensuring your village gets to eat? You’d kill a child rather than accept his help?” One of the men spat on the ground, but none of them made any move against her. “One. Last. Cha—” 

The sound of gunshot echoed through the clearing, hitting her square in the chest. Had she not been wearing her armour, it might have made a scratch, but even then a single bullet of ordinary, even substandard, make left nothing more than a welt come morning. It did, however, make her angry.

_Focus. Run. Tackle. Crack. Turn. Punch. Kick. Breathe. Relax. Stand._

“So which of you is going to tell me where to find him?”

—— —— ——

There comes a time in every person’s life when they’re forced to make a decision that will, for better or worse, alter the rest of their time on earth. The decision to stay with a lover or leave for greener pastures, the decision to keep the unexpected baby or realizing you’re not ready, even something so seemingly menial keeping a stable job or working somewhere else — somewhere more dangerous, less simple. Unfortunately, Cecilia Reyes had experiences several occasions like that. Never did they get less complicated. If anything, they got harder as time went on. She wasn’t the young, brash intern she masqueraded as in her twenties. She was a part-time superhero operating an illegal medical practice out of a converted storefront in the dregs of Mutant Town.

What T’Challa offered her was a chance to return to the sort of authority she always desired, with the same satisfaction that came with helping people like her. People that had nowhere else to turn. 

A soft voice in the back of her mind tried explaining just how clear and simple the decision should have been, but it never really was that easy. Despite her protests to the contrary, she enjoyed her time working with Wolverine. She had made friends in Shan, and Bobby, and JP. She… was figuring things out when it came to Remy, but those were thoughts hardly appropriate for the setting. A soft blush tinted her cheeks, forcing her to bow her head in quiet contemplation.

Hair like that was difficult to part with. 

“Do you need an answer today?” she asked finally. He merely rolled his shoulders, leaning back in his seat, giving her a quizzical expression. “There’s arrangements that need to be made. A life that needs uprooting. I need to figure out if this is a viable way to live.” He nodded slowly, considering her words. He was a man slow to speak, prolonged of thought. It reminded her of Hank, actually. At least, of the happy memories she had of him — few people seemed to know how often the man put his foot in his mouth in less formal conversation. Figuratively and literally. 

Clearing his throat, he finally proposed a counter to her question. “We’re in the process of running a trial with the assembled team. They’re current in Tunisia, where there’s been an outbreak of mutant-related violence, particularly on the western border with Algeria. I would like to fly you out to meet them for the debriefing.”  
Cecilia raised a brow, arms folding over her chest. “You want me there for the sum-up?”

Again, he smirked. A coy little thing, he was. Good at leaving details out until the very last moment. “There’s a second part to the deployment. One that requires your specific skill-set.”

“I’m not a triage doctor,” she stated simply.

A voice behind her nearly cut her off, the enthusiasm electric. “No, but I am. And, might I say, I am absolutely thrilled to meet you? Remy said you were prettier in person. He definitely did not lie.”

—— —— ——

Chagrin as he was to admit it, he blended better into the shadows this way. The golden skin was more symbolic than biologically advantageous: the complete opposite of survival of the fittest. Like this, he could be a slip-shadow, little more than a figure in the corner of a person’s peripheries. Josh Foley didn’t like thinking of himself as a weapon. A warrior. He was neither of those. His skill lay in healing, not harming, though time was cruel to remind him of those past mistakes.

Losing his focus for even a split second meant the difference between life and death. Fortunately, he had somebody there to keep his mind on task. Frenzy’s hand caught him, pulling him back an instant before his foot fell on a tripwire lain between two trees. “Focus, Foley,” she said in a low voice.  
He nodded, breath caught in his throat. Stepping over the cord, he kept his eyes down, looking for abnormalities in the forest floor. All he could hear was his own footsteps and those of Joanna behind him, no leaves or twigs crunching beneath his feet. In there distance, there was a single light, guiding their path. The whole of the woods felt abnormally empty and dead, none of nature’s usual sounds penetrating his ears. 

#I’m sensing three men in the house. One of them is out cold — that’s our target.# The silence was quickly replaced with the hollow feeling of unfamiliar voices in his head. It reminded of his time with the X-Men, the constant verbal struggle going on when a telepathy felt the need to mind-meld. He possessed the ability to block them out, but he rarely got to employ it. It was more tactical to communicate non-verbally. There was a less chance of getting spotted.

#Outside guard is handled. Should be smooth sailing.# The second voice was one familiar to him — Xi’an Coy Manh had been an mentor of his during his time at the mansion. The irony was not lost on him, three generations at play, hundreds of miles from home, working towards a common goal. Joanna was technically the newest of them, but higher in the ranks than he could have hoped to achieve. The bitter taste in his mouth quickly subsided when he realized he’d almost done it again, stopping just short of triggering another trap. 

“You ready, kid?” she asked from behind, not commenting on the near-miss. He could only nod. “I know this isn’t what you signed up for — it’s not what any of us signed up for. But situations change. You gotta roll with the punches.”

Saying nothing, he increased his pace as he moved silently towards the door. Josh Foley knew better than anyone how to roll with the punches. What eluded him was the ability to brace for the kicks that came after he fell. Joanna made eye contact, a subtle nod shared between them. She bashed her elbow into the door, sending it back on its hinges, charging the room.

Josh was only a step in when he heard the sound, eyes taking a moment longer to adjust to the sight — they’d miscounted the men. Two guards, like they’d expected, one unconscious body of a young boy no older than fifteen, but there was a fourth in the room — a hulking, vicious looking man with a knife in his hands. There was no time to react before he slit the boy’s throat, sinister smile on his face. “Boo,” he said, letting the body drop to the ground. 

His heart stopped, but his mutation refused to let it stay like that for long. He’d tried that before. It never worked.


	2. I.ii: leave them where they fall

_Focus. Slam. Snap. Throw. Turn. Punch. Punch. Punch._

Joanna began moving before any blood could escape the boy’s gash. The two lackeys posed no threat to her, a simple toss-and-throw of one into the other, like a modified fastball special. The impact shook the foundations of the ramshackle hut, one of the walls blown clear through. It was the third man, the unexpected man, that took considerably more effort. 

She immediately figured him to be a telepath, which was an instant red flag in her mind. They possessed two of the brightest and strongest mind influencers on the entire planet, and for him to have escaped their notice meant that he was beyond their ability level. If he held that sort of power, it put her mind at risk — she was unwilling to let herself be made a slave again. #Chris, keep him out of our heads,# she commanded with a forceful elbow to the man’s gut, sending him recoiling. The grace of her fighting dance needed to be forgotten. A telepath could influence a fight in their favour, at least when strategy was involved. Time with the X-Men taught her to be spontaneous, unpredictable, and careless when dealing with one. Better to miss a couple of blows than to have them expertly countered every time. 

Her second worry was Josh, whose powers afforded him little protection from physical blows — though he could, in a pinch, knit up any wounds that happened upon him. She didn’t want that, though. It was her job to keep him safe, and it was his job to make sure the kid came back alive. The longer she stalled, or put off finishing the fight, the less likely clearing that objective became. 

Taking a quick aside glance behind her, she assessed the situation as quickly as her brain could process the thoughts. Josh was trying to reach the kid before he bled out. They were too close, there was too much risk involved, she needed to—

The man as abruptly launched back, a swirl of orange engulfing his body. It lasted only half a second, but even that was long enough for her to get a running start. He was powerful, both mentally and physically, but she was stronger. She needed to be stronger. 

#And Chris with the assist,# the man said with a snide air to his voice. 

#You’re _supposed_ to be making sure we don’t get possessed.#

She could as much as feel his grin on the back of her neck as she took down the boar. #Believe it or not, I’m capable of doing two things at once.#

A hand clapped her shoulder, trying to squeeze hard enough to dislocate something — a failed effort. Joanna rolled over, balancing precariously with only his hand as support, laying a careful kick with the brunt of her heel right where it hurt, sending the man into a flurry of cursing and grunting. #Now, Shan.# 

Abruptly, the movement ceased and the man went completely limp. Karma’s hesitant voice sounded in the back of her mind. #What do you want me to do?#

Exhaling, Joanna pulled herself to her feet. #Knock him out as long as you can. Our focus is the kid.#

 

——  ——  ——

 

“—I’m sorry, that was _incredibly_ rude of me,” the woman said, stepping forward so that Cecilia Reyes could see her. It hadn’t been a lie: she’d spoken to Remy LeBeau several times about the woman before her, all good things. It wasn’t _unlike_ her to get starstruck, but she had been hoping to set that facet of herself aside under such professional conditions. “I’m Doctor Faiza Hussain. Doctor. Cricket connoisseur. On leave from MI-13. You know. The usual.”

She fidgeted rather nervously, tugging on the sleeve of her blouse, before outstretching a hand to shake with Reyes. The woman wore the look of tired confidence, like an unbreakable soldier that had already before seen the truth of the world. It stood in stark contrast to the small, easy smile on Faiza’s face — she’d not yet been bested by demons. After all, she had a magical sword to keep them at bay. “Pleased to meet you, Dr. Hussain.”

“Oh, no, _please_. Call me Faiza.”

T’Challa inclined his head as politely as he could — a gesture she would have once found patronizing. It felt different when one of your heroes did it. “Faiza, here, is on loan to us by one Pete Wisdom as we attempt to restructure the efficacy of this organization. She played a vital role during the Skrull Invasion and, I’m told, that without her expertise, we might have lost the entire British Isles. 

Blushing, she waved a dismissive hand. “I also won my fantasy pool for the ICC last year.”

“I believe that between the two of you,” he continued, looking right at Reyes, brow furrowed intently, “we’ll possess all the skills necessary of the work that needs doing. Grace under fire. Strong, authoritative command. A desire to help those in need. The match is a good one. And I really hope you’ll consider staying the course, Doctor Reyes.”

Her posture shifted, crossing one leg over the other. Faiza tapped her fingers on her arm, watching her intently. She’d not been expecting her to be such a hard sell. When she was presented the opportunity, she had leapt at it — of course, such enthusiasm also came with a price. She refocused her gaze, trying to brush away thoughts of her father. Cecilia closed her eyes, speaking in a level, deep tone. “One deployment,” she said firmly. “One trial. If it’s not a good fit, then I walk away, and you ask the next doctor on your list. I’m sure Stephen Strange is available.”

Faiza did her best to hold back a grin at the mention of Strange.

The man had been about to accept her terms when the door opened, much more forcefully than it had when she entered. A tall, lanky woman whose features were completely out of this world — pink skinned, green eyed, a certain mournfulness about her despite the urgency of her tone and posture. “We’ve gotta boogie, gang,” she said, primarily speaking to T’Challa before looking each of them in turn. “Hi. I’m Blink. I’ll be your pilot today.”

 

——  ——  ——

 

His concentration was intense. Josh Foley was a miracle worker, they said. He could fix anything, heal anyone. When Xi’an Coy Manh  first met him, he was something of a standoffish, almost arrogant young man. He believed those words, perhaps more than anything. He thought himself invincible, invulnerable. Now here he was, another one of the broken things. One of the people the X-Men had failed most, made worse by the fact that he was one of their own. 

She knew full well the consequences of believing in your abilities beyond your skill. A knot formed in her throat, swallowing it back willfully as her hand brushed over the metallic leg affixed to her hip. 

Much as she wanted to reach out, to touch his shoulder, she knew better than to interrupt this process. He knew his limits now, the point at which his miracles stopped performing with the same edge. This was one of those occasions when everything would work against him. His arrogance had turned into stubbornness, a deep-seated unwillingness to accept help, especially from _her_. She was still an X-Man. She knew what they’d allowed those kids to witness, to live through, and yet she turned a blind eye to the misery and death. In a way, she’d become part of the problem, when all she ever wanted to be was the answer. 

It wasn’t guilt that motivated her joining the team, though. Her guilt did nothing but force her to retreat further inside of herself. Xi’an possessed a guilty mind, one that never seemed to lessen, no matter how much good she did. She always seemed to remember her shortcomings and failures before the successes. 

“—He’s gone,” Josh said after a long silence, punctured only by the short, staggered breaths they all took. The anticipation was heavy — none of this should have happened. The intel was wrong. The situation had devolved well past their level of involvement. This was something for a strike team, a _good_ one. Well equipped. Their strike team had been a couple telepathic safe measures, a woman with super strength, and a boy with a chip on his shoulder and no desire to fight. 

Now she placed a hand on his shoulder, squeezing gently as a show of support. He didn’t seem to react adversely to the touch, though he slumped forward, burying his head in his hands, trying to shield himself from the rest of the room. “It’s okay,” she whispered, primarily to the air, unsure of whether or not he was actually listening. 

He was, as it turned out. His hands balled into fists, the sombre nature of the boy quickly turning into something much more dark, much more angry. “We should have done a better sweep,” he said, accusations souring his voice. “How could _two_ telepaths not pick up his signature?”

She witnessed Christian, on the other end of the room, looking ready to fight back, but she managed to speak first. “I’m not sure he had one,” she stated, pausing as she allowed the rest of the team to compose themselves. “I possessed both guards, I did a full search of the room. I didn’t _see_ him. Physically _and_ mentally.” 

“A ghost?” Joanna asked, brow raised in curiosity. 

Xi’an shook her head. “I don’t think so,” she said softly, pursing her lips for a moment. “More like a—”

 

——  ——  ——

 

The process of blinking was a simple one, but infinitely terrifying in its ease: one second you were in London, the next, you weren’t. Instead of the comfort of a small Charing Cross office loft, Faiza Hussain felt a bitter chill on the back of her neck, intermingled with the humidity of the Mediterranean managing to find its way so far away from the shoreline. 

“I can’t teleport _into_ the building,” Blink explained, the only one who wasn’t completely dizzy from the experience. In the time it took Faiza to recover from the travelling, the girl had already gone back to fetch T’Challa as well, leaving the four of them at the edge of the woods in a clearing, completely devoid of life. “Something’s blocking me — I’m not sure what it is.”

“No matter,” the Black Panther said, quickly finding his footing once more, beginning to lead the group through the tree line and into the darkness of the thicket. He moved swiftly, and with such grace that the rest of them couldn’t hope to match. “Keep your eyes on the ground. There are traps in these woods.”

Faiza noted that she was the only one that seemed to be wary of them. Panther’s movements were fluid and precise, Cecilia’s body seemed reactive to the idea, her foot falling to the ground so quickly and rising once more before her heel could even land. Whenever she came too close to one of the lines, a mild orange glow shot out of her leg, protecting her from danger. Blink was barely on the ground, creating sealed portals as stepping stones, vanishing and reappearing as needed, some three feet from the forest floor. She was left to stumble and fear for her life, keeping her entirely distracted in the minutes leading up to their arrival.

The house itself was unimpressive, but she knew this wasn’t an architectural tour of Tunisia. Panther wasted no time in entering the hut, the door completely removed. Faiza took up the rear in entry, nearly walking into Cecilia as the group remained at a total standstill, clustered around the entranceway. The body of a dead child was the most obvious of things wrong with the room, a small pool of blood dripping from his garrotted neck, as well as the hole in the far wall, where two bodies lay in a crumpled heap just beyond the debris. But what struck her most was the fact that none of the team was still there — she hadn’t been expecting such a meagre welcome.

T’Challa spoke, then, in a voice not his own. A faint pink glow emitted around his head. Faiza did not recognize the woman speaking, but took her warning as dire as she would one from her own mother: “The Shadow King has Christian.” 


	3. I.iii: the brave fear to tread

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay -- I told myself I wanted to stay at least one full cycle ahead of my writing (posting 1.1 as i wrote 2.1), but my NaNo took a different shift after I completed arc two. Ultimately, the story is not the full scope I wanted to it have, however the ending of the second arc does give a fairly decent conclusion. I will be posting what I've written and, should the opportunity arise, I would like to complete this story to where I had intended it to end. Hopefully you enjoy the twelve written parts, to be posted intermittently over the next few weeks!

Chris remembered this darkness. It had loomed over him for years, crippling anxiety and fighting off demons. He was no stranger to battling his own mind, but warring against someone else’s influence? That was a new experience for him, one he wasn’t entirely prepared for. He didn’t know If he was strong enough to fight it. 

#The more you struggle, the more hostile the takeover.#

—# _You attacked Josh_.#

The strength of the memory took him aback. One moment, he felt all this anger rising inside of him, and then the next, it was like he wasn’t himself anymore. A stranger in his own mind. For a moment, he thought it was Karma trying to ensure he didn’t start a shouting match, but it wasn’t so much an invasion as it was a complete possession. He lost control of his faculties. He amplified the telepathic connection they were sharing to broadcast higher frequencies, enough to kill a weaker mind. Frenzy was too slow to stop him: he had already plunged the medicine man’s knife into Josh’s shoulder, using the confusion to escape. 

Then it all went black. And he woke up here — in more darkness.

#This is the astral plane,# he said, effectively reading his mind. #My little corner of it. My home, if you will.#

—# _What do you want with me?#_

He heard the subtle echo of a laugh, slowly traversing the infinite space they occupied. #You? Nothing. You’re a tool, nothing more. A stepping stone. It was a twist of fate that brought us together, a mind so… powerful, but vulnerable. The child was mere child’s play. A test of my own ability. How did you know to find me there? There’s no memory of it in your mind.#

Squirming, Chris tried to fight back — his powers were untested, unfinished. He’d never thought something like this could happen to him. He hadn’t been expecting it. He should have been expecting it. A single thought trickled from his mind, enough for the Shadow King to pounce. 

#You had no idea? None?# Another laugh, another echo through the vacuum of space. #But you had _her_ with you. The mind-hopper. You mean to say she wasn’t looking for me?”

—# _I don’t know what you’re—#_

#I’m inclined to believe you,# he thought, some pondering in his tone. The ghouls that echoed around his skull were hungry, possessive. They didn’t enjoy sharing. Chris could feel them closing in against his voice. #That certainly makes things more… interesting. I do enjoy _interesting_.#

Before he could speak, he felt a ghostly hand closing over his mouth, beginning to suffocate him. What had been complete darkness before grew even colder, even blacker. Substance no longer had meaning, ideas no longer carried weight: the abyss turned into absolute nothingness. He stopped thinking. He stopping projecting. Chris ceased to be. 

 

——  ——  ——

 

Joanna Cargill never got tired. If need be, her legs could find the energy to run for days before quitting. Running on empty took on a whole new definition for her — zero sleep, zero food, zero prep. It didn’t matter how long it took, or where the road took her, she would find Chris and she would end his miserable existence. No matter how many times Karma asserted the fact that it wasn’t him, that he was possessed, she failed to see the difference. 

Her feet felt slick on the ground, digging her heel into the earth to gain better traction. She’d lost his trail a good five minutes ago, running blindly through the woods. Stopping might have been a good idea. Might have been. She wasn’t a quitter. She refused to be seen as a quitter. In spite of those thoughts, she stopped in her tracks, doubling over, hands working the muscles of her thighs. Superhuman durability meant nothing without training. Anybody could take a punch, or run a marathon. It took dedication to be able to run a marathon without running out of breath. 

Turning around, she began making the slow walk back to where she’d left the others behind, head hung in shame. 

 

——  ——  ——

 

It didn’t take long for Cecilia and her party to meet up with Karma, crouched over the immobile body of Josh Foley, left on the ground. Her fingers traced in lines along the boy’s face, the subtle pink of her telepathy picking and prodding at his mind. She looked up when she heard the commotion, face red from worry and panic. “Frenzy’s gone after him—I’m not sure how far she’s gotten.” 

“I can track him,” T’Challa said, voice gruff. Cecilia looked back at him, finding it odd to see him traipsing through the wilderness out of his usual get-up. Like this, he resembled any other person. “When Joanna returns, we can go to find him. You said it was the Shadow King?” 

Shan licked her lips, bowing her head. “I recognized the signature too late. I’ve—I’ve had run-ins with him before.” As she recoiled, Faiza wordlessly crouched down next to Josh.

T’Challa’s focus seemed to be on hunting down their missing asset, but still his mind wavered to the body in the cabin. “We lost the boy?” he asked, keeping a stiff upper lip, Shan merely nodded. “A shame. Do we know what the Shadow King wanted of him?” Now, she only shook her head. 

The conversation continued on, but Cecilia’s interest shifted towards the other doctor’s actions. She’d never seen abilities like that before, her powers capable of opening his body without intrusion, hoping to fix what was wrong with him.  She approached the woman, standing over her shoulder as she witnessed a still-beating heart, lungs taking in minute amounts of air, all while separated from his now-empty torso. “Watch this,” she said, a hint of excitement in her voice, head tilting towards the brain. 

Even in medical school, Cecilia had trouble looking at open corpses. There was something about a cadaver that made her uncomfortable. This was an entirely different situation, far worse in most respects. Then she saw the wonderment about it — his brain was knitting itself back together. She could see it happening, the cells restoring, losing the effect of the blunt force trauma. “Are you doing that?”

Faiza shook her head. “His mutant ability is. Absolutely incredible. The DNA is rewriting itself — like a soft reset. I just want to observe. Take notes. If he was a tapeworm, I would probably dissect and do a study. Unfortunately, I’m not so lucky to know more tapeworms than I do people.”

Squinting, Cecilia crouched down to get a better view of the process. True to her word, the cells seemed to be doing all the work without straining the cognitive process. Josh was certainly out of it, but none of his vital signs were weakened, closer to being asleep than comatose. The morbid curiosity in her wanted to reach out to touch, but the sensible side prevented it.

Joanna’s return came unannounced, a rustle in the trees and bushes that put the team on edge. She seemed perturbed, both with herself and the general state of the situation, leaning against a tree, not saying a word to the rest of the team. T’Challa turned his head, giving her a grave nod. “We need to move quickly. If we lose the trail, we have no way of finding Christian,” he explained.

“What about Josh?” Cecilia asked, finally looking up from the body. 

“Clarice can take him to somewhere more protective,” he said, gesturing to Blink. “He’ll need time to rest, but he’ll be fine come morning. We cannot say the same for Christian — not without help. Faiza, Xi’an, Joanna, I’ll be needing your assistance.”

They all seemed unresponsive to the directive, but Cecilia felt particularly left-out. Not that she minded. “This isn’t what I signed up for,” she said sternly. 

“I understand that,” he said, beginning to dismiss her, but Cecilia Reyes was nothing if not persistent. 

“I’m not being left behind.”

A small smirk formed on his face. “Clarice can return you to London, it will take only a second.”

She arched a defensive brow. “You _know_ what I meant.”

T’Challa laughed. “We will be lucky to have you.”

 

——  ——  ——

 

He felt the callous scratch of fingernails against his chest, rousing him from the darkness. Christian still couldn’t move — he couldn’t even think, not without considerable strain on his consciousness. His mind was supposed to be his domain, even during the times he didn’t have total control of himself. He was no stranger to feeling trapped, boxed in, but he’d found ways to circumvent it, ways to reaffirm his dominance. This was no longer his mind, though — these thoughts weren’t happening in his own head, but in the shadow’s domain. A place beyond his power. 

#Did I wake you?#

— _#Get out of my body.#_

Another laugh — mirthless, pitiful laughter. #Your body is safe. I could never dare to harm such a pretty young thing.# The tone rose in pitch. Mocking, coy. #That’s how you see yourself, isn’t it? A fragile plaything, ripe for _plucking_. If only the rest of the world saw you in that same light.#

The fingers dragged further up his chest, nails digging into his flesh, making it impossible to breathe. It was an odd sensation, feeling pain without a body physically present. —# _I don’t need to listen to you.#_

#Oh, but you do—# A sharp, sudden pain coursed through his nerves, like a punch to the stomach and a kick to the groin all at once. Once more, he was blinded by screams of agony, feeling pain afflicted to his phantom body. #Your mind has been left open to me, like a book to be devoured in one sitting. Such a nice little life you had carved out for yourself. A boyfriend. A promising career. And then daddy had to take it all away from you.#

Christian struggled against the bondage he had been placed under, lock-and-key in the further dimensions of time and space, a kingdom belonging to nobody but the twisted soul of darkness. — _#Stay away from my family.#_

The Shadow King laughed again, longer now. A genuine laugh, stemming from the gut and the throat, full of human superiority and the vain promise of pride. #Still, you protect them, even now. Three sisters, one dead for power, the other just as sinister, and what’s this? Telepaths, all of them? Such _luck_. Such _happenstance_. If they truly worried over your well-being, would they not have come to fetch you from your sanitarium, your prison? Would not dear, precious _Emma_ come to your rescue? You were so close, once. So very close, I’m almost moved to tears.#

When Emma’s name was spoken, Christian shivered, like someone had stepped over his grave. He tried not to think of Emma anymore, the memories too sour. —# _Get out! Get out of my head!#_

A weight landed on his invisible chest, stopping his breath from escaping without struggle. #The lovely Emma Frost,# the spectre retorted, echoing throughout the caverns of his dimension. #How long I’ve been admiring her from afar — such beauty, grace, poise, and _power_. I cannot help but wonder how great a union betweens our minds would be. Compared to hers, yours is as vapid and empty as that of a child. But she is a woman without limits. A woman of stature.#

— _#She would never let herself be overtaken by someone like_ _you_ _.#_

#Ah, yes, perhaps she would not be so foolish to leave her mind unguarded against Astral attack. She got the brains, after all, while _you_ were given nothing but being able to stand in the shadows of three greater sisters.# He pondered a moment, even his silences punctuated by a soft hissing sound. #But you? She trusts you. She wouldn’t suspect her own brother of trickling into her thoughts, slowly taking over her mind. I told you that you were a stepping stone, did I not? Well, it appears, Mr. Frost, that you are going to be more than that — you’re destined to be my springboard back to greatness.#


	4. I.iv: plagued with thoughts most vicious

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is probably the chapter I most enjoyed writing, because it was nice to really get into a character's head. This chapter, and the next one, have some of my favourite bits and pieces of the entire story -- even if they don't hold much bearing on the overall plot, I don't consider them filler, either. Character development yay.

Christian Frost had been alone for most of his life.

The youngest of four children, the only boy, left him in a compromised position for the bulk of his childhood. There were people who doubted the influence of a child’s upbringing in the formation of their sexuality, preferring to believe in their genetic code being the indicator, but the amount of time that he spent in dresses, in wigs, or makeup, it was really no surprise to the girls when he first told them. 

In retrospect, he shouldn’t have gotten his hopes up after such a reception. His sisters were one thing — they all took to him like a fly to honey — his father was another entirely. Back then, though, his father was his best friend, at least in his mind. His _hero_. The man he was supposed to look up to. It wasn’t so foolish to believe that your parental figures would accept you no matter what, not at eighteen, not when the whole world was just about ready to open itself up for you. 

He was happy, that was what mattered. 

Emma’s urgings prevented him from coming out to their father, granted the luxury of having no stake in the family business, merely the inheritance. He took what money he got through allowance and gifts, travelling the world with it. While his sisters fought and bickered over ownership of the company, while they grew apart from the politics of business, he met the love of his life, secreting him back to the United States so they could live together as Christian began schooling to go into teaching — it felt incredibly out-of-type for him, the affluent tycoon going into public education, but he realized he wanted to be able to help people. 

It brought a smile to his face, even now. All those years later, all those dreams quashed. 

As he lay there, motionless on an absent plain, he struggled to keep his mind focused. Is this what it was like to die? Forced to remember every mistake, every regret? Making it worse, egging him further down the spiral, was the knowledge that his body was still there, no longer his own. Someone else had commandeered it, doing God knows what with it. 

Christian would be lying if he said he didn’t take serious issue with his body. They’d gone through so much together, the dark recesses of depression and the physical strain of substance abuse. It held as many scars as one body could, impossible to look in a mirror without flinching away. He’d been so confident once. As a teenager, he’d thought of himself an Adonis. God’s gift to man. His time spent travelling was split equally between his hotel room and the bedrooms of locals, rarely a night gone by without somebody accompanying him to bed. He had an advantage — being able to read minds lent him the ability to read intentions, to check for red flags. No married men, no undercover homophobes looking to trick him into getting alone. His sexual awakening was constant, visceral, almost to the point of being overwhelming. 

Then he met Luca, during a trip through the Sardinian countryside, and what should have been a fling turned into an evening of picking a man’s brain as he slept soundly next to him. Christian fell in love before ever really meeting the man. That made for a whirlwind romance, nights of passion coupled with days spent in one another’s arms, sharing the little secrets a person shared during the formative months of a new relationship. They’d been together only three months, postponing the end of his trip to stay with his lover, when he got word of his acceptance to school, insisting on bringing Luca back with him. He knew the days of being able to get married were close — and he had enough money to keep away prying eyes. They could last those few years before Luca could become a citizen, and they could settle down and have a family together. 

Of his sisters, only Emma seemed to support his relationship — Cordelia and Adrienne, as close as they had once been, lumped Christian in with an ally of their third sister, rather than an impartial party. They gave him the cold shoulder, boxing him out of half the family. He took it as a slight, but moved on as quickly as he could. He still had Emma, he had Luca, there was nothing else he needed. 

Except for his father’s blessing.

The man was an icon. He transcended business magnate, or political powerhouse — he _was_ Massachusetts. Winston Frost held more power than the Queen of England. His mother, bless her soul, was a follower, not a leader. Her opinion didn’t matter in the end, despite her hushed promises that she was okay with it when she finally did tell them. His father was not so gratified. He could remember the yelling, the screaming, the tears, the threatening. All of it was forever ingrained in his mind as the day his life truly ended, even if at the time he was too stubborn to realize it. 

Leaving behind his family, Christian retreated to a small loft in Boston, continuing his school while making small dents in his substantial savings account. Every now and then, Emma would call him, questioning him about his life. He wasn’t stupid, he knew there was purpose to the calls beyond the familial habit of catching up. But her voice was filled with genuine worry, actual concern — they’d been the closest, growing up. He knew all the quirks of her tone. He could tell the difference between a real laugh and a fake laugh without needing to hear the context of conversation, and could tell just how bad a day she’d had just by the way she said ‘hello’.

After a while, the calls stopped coming. It was an abrupt change, from every other day to never for a month. His imagination ran wild with theories, but he hadn’t been expecting the blow that actually came — the knock on the door, the visits from immigration services. Try as he might to voice his protests, that he was just visiting, the evidence seemed to pile up. The death knell came when a warrant for Luca’s was presented to them while visiting the government office. He was to be immediately extradited and returned to the Italian government for questioning. 

Not once did he blame Emma, but he knew that their phone calls had played a part — she was just as hellbent on succeeding their father as the rest of his sisters were. It didn’t matter to him, in the end, who was to blame: the only person at fault was himself. For being so stupid. For believing so much in his father’s sense of decency. There was no decency in the world, only pride and vanity and greed. He was guilty of it himself, and that gave Christian a complex he couldn’t battle, a blow to his ego that it couldn’t handle without lament. 

He reached for the bottle, then pills, then a pipe.

There was nothing left for him to fight for.

 

——  ——  ——

 

The body was serviceable. Malleable. Tender. 

Almost too tender. Flesh supple as a babe’s, nails perfectly trimmed, eye lashes too long to be modest. Amahl Farouk — how long had it been since he’d used the moniker? — had never inhabited such a fragile thing. How easily he would break in a straight-on fight. It was fortunate the boy possessed moderate psychic ability, as much of his own was spent up pressing down the chains that held Christian’s mind in subordination. If he had any chance of taking over the mind of Emma Frost, whose power alone could match his, at least on this plane, he would need more willing hosts. More power at his command. 

Keeping Christian alive was vital, but silencing him was more than acceptable. He could take over a mind, control all thoughts and actions, but he could not impart a soul. That was the caveat of his insubstantial form. Soon as the host’s mind died, so did his link to the body. Otherwise, it was like dragging along a carcass, rather than a human being. 

His mind scanned that of his prisoner, weighing his options. He doubted his ability to combat the mutants he’d come along with — they were expecting him, now, and at least one of them knew how to fight him. Without other sources, other minds to consume, they would be victorious. Time made the Shadow King less prideful. He knew his limitations. He knew full well just how powerful he could be, but he was not there. Not yet. 

The girl, Xi’an, had taken every possible countermeasure against another attack. The woman, whose name he learned was Joanna Cargill, possessed a grit so strong that he was unsure of his ability to overtake it. The man, Josh Foley, had been weak-minded, but something about his mental strain repelled him. He would not have survived in such an inhospitable environment. T’Challa had always been a fool. A simple, straightforward man. Character only brought so much — sense and forethought was the true measure of worth. The King of Wakanda had little of both. His mind had once been so vulnerable, so open for feasting. 

A smile crossed his lips. A vicious, twisted smile. That of a killer.

There was an encampment not a half mile from where he stood, a small town of no more than three hundred people. Of that quarter-thousand, T’Challa counted no fewer than fifty mutants. New life sprung from the bosom of the Phoenix’s eternal fire. Fifty vulnerable, broken minds, all of them ready to be possessed.

That was where he would take his stand.

That was where he would rule the world.

 

——  ——  ——

 

From the very back of his mind, Christian screamed.

It echoed.

He realized how alone he was. 

This was worse than the institution had been. The square room, the barren walls, the lack of stimulation. How often he’d gotten lost in his own thoughts, which only spiralled his depression. It was difficult to have a level-headed dialogue with yourself when the other half of you genuinely believed yourself to be crazy. Emma was his saving grace, the only thing stopping him from being driven truly insane. 

A quirk of the Frost family’s powers prevented them from being able to communicate telepathically with one another: their minds were protected from psychic attack, espionage, or influence. The two of them, though, shared a mental link with one another. Conversations were still impossible, but little bits of information could trickle in and out, and every so often they caught one another’s psychic signature in the chaos of the rest of the world. One common thread of their ‘talks’ was his location, a fact that Christian was ultimately unaware of — the guards all seemed to share the instructions not to tell him, a secret even to his father. His name was annexed from any medical records and logs, his existence made into that of a ghost. She could call every psychiatric ward in the country, and nobody would tell her if he was a patient there. Few of them even knew his true name. To them, he was Patient Four. One of four likeminded — by that he meant _psychic_ — denizens of the building.

All he knew was this his room was specially crafted to prevent him from reading thoughts or projecting his terrors onto the others. Emma was the only person he could speak with the exception of himself. He was grateful for that second voice in his head, however brief and however fleeting. The prison was his home for four years. Four years he would never get back — four years sober, but at what cost? His smile? His happiness? All he could do was deflect humour with sarcasm and bruised ego posing as bravado. Part of him often wished he’d never escaped from the sanitarium. That, ultimately, he would have died a happier man with nothing than to come to learn what he’d lost when he was gone.

Now here he was again, a trapped rabbit witnessing his own, slow, gradual funeral.

He’d escaped one of his captors, but this one didn’t seem quite so simple. Perhaps everyone was allowed one jail break in their lives, and he’d managed his only to wind up in a bigger, more terrifying, cell the second time around. Much as he hoped that Emma would forgive him everything he’d done to wrong her, to burden her life, now all he could think of was what she would do in his situation, how she would finagle her way free from chains and find a way to fight back against her captor. He wasn’t Emma, though. 

No matter how hard he tried, how badly he wanted it, he could never live up to her legacy. 


	5. I.v: nothing but subtle silence

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I sorta love this chapter, even if it's written somewhat strangely. I was halfway through when I realized I was writing in the wrong person, but I liked it so much I made it a separate section rather than rewriting into third. I think it fits better. Next chapter is the conclusion to this little saga, and then we begin act two! Hospitals, earthquakes, and pastries, oh my!

He had no name — no true identity. Life could not be afforded to someone like him, a stain on the legacy of the human race. They did not kill, they did not openly persecute, but still, he was ostracized from the community. They were sent to a small corner of the town, desolate and barren, to live what meagre excuses for lives they could in what short time they had.

He had brothers and sisters, a hundred of them, all cursed in the same way, yet different. A pretty girl of seven could draw lines in the dirt for mancala and tic-tac-toe without touching the earth. Another girl, this one missing part of her jaw, changed the colour of her hair at will. He knew of a boy that could sprout wings from his back and fly free as an eagle. And then there was him. He could enter the dreams of his new friends and grant them happy thoughts at night, or invade the thoughts of those that scorned his family and plague them with vicious nightmares.

He had no need of fear or sadness. It was a happy existence, his. Simple. Meagre. But happy. They ate well, aided by those that could grow plants and manipulate the coming and goings of the wind. They drank clean water, purified by those who could boil without the need of fire, or isolate the pieces of such a flimsy liquid. When they slept, they called him their dream-guardian, the boy that warded off the spirits of death and disease. While villagers beyond their gate grew older and withered away to dust, they seemed only to grow more lively and vibrant as the summer passed on.

He had noticed the stranger, of course, come morning. He was fair of skin, with golden hair that picked up a dozen ever more beautiful colours when the sun shone down upon it. The man had the look of a traveller, like the ones he remembered back when he was outside of the fence, but his curiosity was not of a man looking at animals. He played with the children as people, not with the same patronizing tedium of a man looking to better his existence by being polite to the lesser people of the world.

This was Africa. There was no greater people.

Come midmorning, the man seemed to be looking for one in particular. He spoke to the adults, the shamans and sages among them, in hushed tones, heads tilted away from the curious, eavesdropping children. Finally, there came a point where he got the answer he was looking for. One of the wisewomen — tall, stoic, beautiful in her reservation — approached him, crouching down to meet his gaze, a soft smile on her face. “My child,” she said, setting a hand on his shoulder. “This man would like to speak with you about your gift. He, too, is a dream walker. He is a seer. He wishes to teach you. To make you the wisest of us all.” His eyes must have widened, because the woman’s own eyes crinkled and her smile grew. “I knew that you would be excited. Do you wish to meet him?”

“I would like nothing more.”

 

—— —— ——

 

 

We spoke different languages, but we communicated through our silence and subtlety. His name was Christian. Like the missionaries that came to speak to my family, to teach us new stories to share when there was no more play to be had. I tried to tell him I had no name. I think he understood me — he pointed his palm to me, one finger further extended, and called me ‘friend’. I recognized the word from past visitors we’ve had, one of the few words I can understand in English. On the other side of the gate, they learn he language so easily and freely. But here, we like to keep the old traditions. The wisewomen say it is to remind us of our home, and where we came from: that there is magic in this land of ours, and we were her true children.

He sat funny, and one of the wisewomen came to act as translator between us, so that we may better communicate our lessons. She was one of the few to have been cursed by the firebird, once a respected teacher, now treated as less than whole because she can change her skin from flesh to metal to earthen stone. We call her mother protector. She held my hand as she spoke his instructions — to close my eyes, to relax my breathing, to allow my mind to wander and wander the great plains of the stars. I skipped from constellation to constellation, no hesitation as I overtook planets and comets and rocks.

Then I saw him there, the golden man.

He did not look so jovial as he did while sitting next to me. I considered opening my eyes, to see what had upset him, but thought better of it. He appeared to be tied down with hempen rope, a metallic chain around his neck, holding him in place as he orbited around the sun eternal. I approached him, curious, stopping only when I heard his voice echoing amongst the planets and into my head, spoken in English. #Get out of here!#

His words sounded like fire in my brain. I didn’t understand them, but understood the intention behind them. They were words of caution. I stepped away, hesitant, then came forward again. This was a man in bondage. I had to do what I could to help him. He was in pain. He needed help. My hands struggled around the ropes binding him, the knots beyond my recognition. He looked at me, panicked expression on his face, struggling to break himself free of this prison.

I managed to free one wrist, which he shook with the pain of a thousand years in chains. His shoulder cracked as he reached to release his other arm, while I crouched to undo his legs. We had barely begun our progress when I felt another presence lingering behind me. Turning my head around, I realized I saw nothing — the world had gone dark around us, an infinite blackness that seemed substantial only ten feet in front of me.

“You shouldn’t touch my playthings, friend.”

I speak no English, but I understood every word.

 

—— —— ——

 

The Shadow King hungered. He waited for the moon to fall. With the dreamer under his power, the moment they went to sleep, they would be in his grasp. The boy had no idea just how much power he held, able to shape the entire dreamscape with the slightest of thoughts. In a matter of hours, he would have exactly what he needed to seize what he rightfully deserved. He laughed. It sounded all over the astral plane. It would soon be his domain once more.

 

—— —— ——

 

God, give me strength.

Cecilia Reyes rarely prayed. This seemed like one of those few opportunities where it made sense.

Her heels had never hurt so much, they cut and dug into her shoes. When she took them off, the forest floor proved no better cushion. She couldn’t rightly say how long they had been running, only that they’d been at it for hours. T’Challa and Joanna seemed no worse for wear, but she, Karma, and Faiza were straggling now, holding them back. Had they gone alone, the others would have been there by now. There was no telling what horrors had been unleashed because of their slowness.

It served nobody to dwell on such guilt, but that was difficult to avoid. She was naturally a pessimist. Ten minutes into a job interview, and suddenly she was running somewhere, chasing after the stolen body of a man she’d never met, with a group of people she’d never worked with before, Shan excluded. Every so often, they would offer one another a smile. Mournful smiles.

“Almost there,” she heard T’Challa say ahead. “There is a village beyond these trees. The trail is fresh. He’s still lurking about. Xi’an, keep your mind alert.”

“Do you think he’d be stupid enough to target one of us again?” Joanna asked.

T’Challa’s answer came sharply as he cut through the tree line, entering another clearing. Some hundred feet away, a gated village stood in their path. “He’s been in mine before, and Xi’an’s. Now Christian. I would not underestimate his ability.”

The woman nodded slowly, the entire group coming to a standstill. “What’s the plan, then?” Faiza asked, bending down and catching her breath. “I’m not sure how much longer I can go before collapsing, to be honest.”

Joanna placed a hand on the doctor’s back, patting it reassuringly. “I’m surprise you lasted as long as you did.”

The faintest of smiles formed on Faiza’s face.

As they recuperated, Panther carried on as if nothing had transpired, mind elsewhere, formulating a strategy. “The plan should be a simple one. Cecilia creates a barrier to protect us from physical attack, Joanna plays the muscle. We have to get close enough for Karma to link her mind with the Shadow King’s, and Faiza needs to be able to stop the body from reacting, severing the link between the physical realm and the astral plane. He’ll know we’re coming, but we have the advantage — we’ve beaten him before.”

Sighing, Cecilia stretched her hamstrings, nodding her head. “I can last a few minutes, but it’s gotta be fast. My body’s screaming at me to take a breather.”

“Remind me again why we sent away the pretty pink bus?” Faiza asked.

It took them a few moments to fully prepare. There was no time for breaks, or stopping. It wasn’t just Christian that hung in the balance. T’Challa had versed them in the dangers, and Cecilia had heard her own stories from Shan while they spent time together on the X-Men. She couldn’t begin to imagine what would happen to her under those conditions. She didn’t want to imagine them. Better to exert herself now, push to that limit, than to allow something as horrible as that to happen.

Her barrier’s beige glow was faded, but the structure still held up to scrutiny — it shimmered when Frenzy’s fist hit it, but it neither bent nor broke. Cecilia was impressed with the handiwork, though the space was rather cramped. They approached the village in slow bursts, readying themselves. Shan had given what advice she could against warding off psychic attacks, but it was Christian that was their real shield against such things. It came down to willpower, now. She had that in spades, but never when her life depended on it. Another thing she lacked was follow-through. All she could think was, first, don’t let anyone else in, and second, what have I gotten myself into now?

When they reached the door, Joanna stepped out first, pushing the gate open. There had been no sentries posted, no armed men waiting for them, guns and spears pointing down at their chests. She’d been, perhaps foolishly, expecting no welcome at all. She should have known better. There was always a welcoming committee. In this case, it was a little boy, no older than ten, hands clasped behind his back. And he was staring them down, far more viciously than any ten year old should have been able to.

There was a lull, lasting only a handful of seconds, before T’Challa reacted. “Faiza, now! He’s under his command.”

“It’s just a child—” she began.

“Now.”

She couldn’t deny such authority, and the grotesque sight of seeing a boy’s body being split apart and shown in three dimensions forever scarred Cecilia’s image. It was worse than seeing Joshua in such a state, as this boy had been completely innocent, completely undeserving of such a terrible torture. Faiza assured her it caused no pain, but that did little to quell her nerves.

They needed to move more swiftly now, traversing more ground. As they moved the group grew smaller. Joanna remained behind to protect Faiza, the boy her primary focus. Cecilia couldn’t keep the barrier going for long — if Karma was going to get to Christian, wherever he was, they needed to move quickly. Fortunately, most of the village seemed to be asleep in their houses and huts, a total darkness engulfing their homes. She tried not to think of what madness they were going through, or what thrall they were under. She had to focus on Christian, keeping him safe. That was the mission, not these people. As long as they were in their homes, they were ultimately safer than they would be knowing of their presence.

T’Challa tracked the scent to a concentrated area, beyond another gate. He took the front of the guard, Shan at the rear. It often slipped her mind how much expertise the girl had in combat, the realities of life as one of the X-Men. Cecilia’s own attention was spent on keeping them safe, but that power was fading. Her eyes glazed over, barely able to see where she was going, despite following right on Panther’s heels. Fortunately, or perhaps unfortunately, they stopped, nearly colliding into one another.

Christian stood before them, though his eyes held a hollow look, barren of anything but the darkness of the Astral Plane. “Such willing victims, these people,” the man said in a voice that sounded like a poor imitation of their teammate rather than an actual voice. “How easily harvesting their energies were. You will make a nice main course after the appetizer.”

“Xi’an, go!”

T’Challa’s command still ringing in the air, Cecilia felt Shan push past her, moving closer to the Shadow King. A pink glow enveloped her head and his, but only for a moment before fading away. She stumbled somewhat, confusion evident in her posture.

The man smirked. “It isn’t so easy, tricking me out of this body. Not when it has little tricks of its own.” He placed two fingers at his temple, looking right at Cecilia, eyes boring into her soul. “What’s this? A fresh mind for me to plunder? I didn’t think you’d be so foolish as to bring me snacks, T’Challa. And they call you a tactician?”

“—Cecilia, close your mind to him!”

But it was so difficult.

#Sleep, girl, and all this pain will go away…#

Her eyes were so heavy.

She remembered hearing somebody call her name before everything went black. 


	6. I.vi: where soul meets body

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have no words for this chapter -- the end of the first arc. When I was initially planning, this was not where I thought it was leading, but sometime while writing part 3 it all clicked in my head. I'm going to save my notes until the end, so that nothing is spoiled but, please -- enjoy.

She couldn’t breathe, the world was suffocating her. Cecilia Reyes could scarcely remember being human, being alive: it was as if her existence was nothing but a memory, her body a fabrication, some twisted story she told herself to pass the time in the fathomless void. Her troubles didn’t seem so bad, now — if anything, they were nonexistent. Her fears about love, her indecision, her desire for a normal life away from the hysterics that plagued people like her. Why did any of it matter?

At the end of the day, there was nothing but the gaping, endless afterlife. The darkness comforted all.

 

—— —— ——

 

Faiza arrived before they needed to even call her name.

Xi’an’s vision had gone blurry, still struggling to rectify herself. She had no idea what, if anything, had been done to her — the world spun around in circles, but that might have been the wind knocking out of her. T’Challa set his focus on protecting their fallen friend, leaving her defenceless against assault. Christian’s body was not suited for physical attack, and their minds were both warded against psychic invasion, but she’d never felt such a surge of brain-numbing electricity course through her veins. She felt entirely powerless against such a foe.

It was all in her head, she knew — it was only ever in her head. She had fought this creature before, defeated and imprisoned him. That was back when she was only a girl of sixteen, a child compared to the woman she was now. If she steeled herself… if she used every ounce of strength and courage she could muster… maybe she would be twice lucky.

It took only a moment for her remember her time spent as leader of the New Mutants. Back when she was so insecure, so afraid of her own mind and her words and her strength. “Faiza, stall them all. Joanna, Christian, anyone that comes to his aid.”

“His power is split,” T’Challa argued, glancing up from his charge. “If you sever his connection to the bodies, his power will be entirely focused in the astral plane. You’ll be defenseless, you’ll—”

She was insistent. “I’ve spent every night for the past eight years looking to redeem myself. For flaws in his attack, ways to defeat him.”

“That doesn’t mean you can do this alone.”

She was strong. “It doesn’t. But do you see another option?”

His eyes closed. “No.”

She was brave. “Faiza. Take him out.”

The world suddenly felt emptier as she employed her power, isolating each part of Christian’s torso, from his burnt lungs to his damaged liver, and his still-beating heart. Then everything went black, and when her eyes opened, she was in the astral plane once more.

 

—— —— ——

 

The King’s domain was expansive, but for a well-travelled psychic, the proper routes lit up like flares out at sea. She could cross leagues in a single step, lessening the distance between them. Xi’an could sense his presence, feel his power and pull. He had no reason to hide anymore, she could discern that much even from a distance. There was a reason that the village seemed so quiet: the boy they’d encountered was a dream walker, he’d poisoned all of their minds and taken them in as mindless disciples, feeding off of their energies.

His voice echoed in the back of her mind, yearning with anticipation and hunger. #How long I’ve waited to see you again, Xi’an.#

—#I’m not here to talk.#

#And I’m not here to play.#

A chill ran down her spine, but it only propelled her forward more swiftly. The longer she lingered here, the lesser the chance she had at freeing her teammates. That was all that mattered here: no her own mind, not her own well-being, but Christian and Cecilia had done nothing wrong. The people of this village had done nothing wrong. They deserved to live their life free of his corrupting influence.

Her powers were amplified in the astral plane. Here, she could do more than simple mind transfers and subtle influences. She could extend her reach, shape and remodel the entire plane. It was hers to command, just as much as it was his. When she landed before him, he appeared in a shapeless form, ethereal and monstrous, like a shadow cut out of an already dark background, somehow even darker still. He gave substance to nothingness, breath to the depth. He was the boogeyman, the destroyed of minds, and at that very moment, hers was the only one he seemed to be interested in.

As terrifying a thought as it was, Xi’an knew that quickly put the odds in her favour.

He grew to a terrifying size, as though he could stretch on for eternity, a move meant to cause her panic. Xi’an was no longer afraid of the dark. She stepped forward, swivelling on her hips, one hand stretching out. A ball of light emitted from her palm, the same pink colour that appeared while hopping between minds. She shot it out towards him, cutting through the veil, into the space behind him. The ball grew and expanded lightening the entire theatre of war. He became a pale version of himself, far less menacing. With the illusion shattered, she felt no anxiety to plunge forward, breaking through his cover.

Behind him, she saw the faces and bodies of the minds he’d enslaved, Christian at the forefront, the dreaming boy to his left, Cecilia to his right. Two of the three appeared asleep, lost in the darkness, but Christian’s eyes were focused and alert. #Help them.#

She nodded, wasting no time. The barrage of psychic attack was already coming, but she retaliated, turning her aura into a sword and shield, protecting her from the brunt of the attack. Like a warrior knight, she charged the bindings, slashing them away in one fell swoop. He lost his hold on Cecilia first, her visage disappearing into the shadows. She next freed the young boy, whose mind held the tether to the rest of the village. When he vanished, as did the hordes of dreamers whose night had been corrupted by sin.

Before she could rescue Christian, she felt a sharp pain strike her back, her thoughts giving out, memory blanking for a moment. It tried to repair itself, to overcome the abrupt invasion, a mental spar between two powerful minds. For the briefest of seconds, she felt like she was going to lose, but she felt the shadow of Christian’s mind penetrating into hers, helping to put the demons at bay.

When she regained control of her senses, she immediately cut loose the tether to Christian’s shackles, but unlike the rest, he remained alert — his own connection to the astral plane both saving him and scarring him. She remembered her time spent there: months and months, compared to his dull few hours, but she also knew better than to diminish his pain. Even a few hours felt like a lifetime.

“Go,” she said, voice coming out as delicate as a phantom’s whisper.

He placed a hand on her shoulder. “No. This is our fight.”

#How touching,# the shade thought, echoing in their minds and reverberating against the confines of his cell. His power had weakened, but he still had all the power he needed at his disposal in this realm. #It matters not — two permanent servants, rather than one? There’s no hope to defeating me, not forever. I cannot die.#

Xi’an licked her lips, shaking her head, an intense look in her eyes. “I had no intention of killing you,” she admitted, immediately charging forward, sword and shield turning into full body armour, head, chest, and legs radiating pink. Even her metallic leg, hanging slightly more to one side, was consumed by her telepathic aura. She broke through his veil once more, this time, shattering him entirely. His ethereal form broke into a million pieces.

By the time she turned around, however, there stood a new figure in her path, the form of her brother, tears staining his eyes. He’d shown no remorse during their fight, all those years ago, when they battled for supremacy over their powers. She often wondered how he appeared now, ten years later, a grown man. He was handsome, marred only by tears, begging for his life. This was an illusion, she knew, some final ploy of the spectre to consume her. She would not fall for the same ruse twice.

She pressed her thumb to the centre of the boy’s forehead. Though he was not physically there, he still felt real. His face was warm, turning red from the crying. “You cannot best me,” he said, in a voice that was not Tran’s, but that of the Shadow King masquerading as her loved one. “This is my domain.”

Christian watched her from a distance, saying nothing.

“It’s your domain no longer,” she said firmly, closing her eyes. “Too long you’ve been allowed to exist, unchecked, destroying minds and lives without remorse. I’m going to send you somewhere you cannot hurt anyone. Somewhere impenetrable. A fortress of thought.” The shade began fading, a pink glow replacing it, as she began absorbing his essence into her own.

He cried out. “I’ve defeated your mind once, Xi’an. Who’s to say I couldn’t do it again?”

“Me,” she said, the body fully disappearing, letting out a grunt as it settled in her mind. A part of herself, bottled away in the darkest recesses of her psyche, never to be unlocked again. “I’m not the girl you possessed all those years ago. Not anymore.” Xi’an fell to her knees, Christian running forward to keep her from falling. “Don’t tell them what I did,” she asked him, voice soft. “Let them think I—”

He kissed her forehead, holding her close. “Consider it our secret.”

The world went dark again, but this darkness made sense. It would take a while for her to wake up, but she could rest easy knowing that the only world she needed to defend was the one in her dreams.

 

—— —— ——

 

By the time Shan awoke, night had turned to day once more.

Somebody had set her in one of the small huts, kept warm in a bed, surrounded by strange smells, all of them delicious and exotic. Her footing was shaky, those first few steps, but she recovered well enough to stumble out the door.

The village was entirely different by day, lively and exciting and bustling. Her team was there, all but Joshua, performing the jobs they were meant to do: they had supplies, food and water and toys, to distribute, seeds to help plant, repairs to be done. She squinted to be able to stand being in the sun, hand cupping over her eyes to block out the light that stung her vision. T’Challa was speaking with a few of the villagers, a ball being passed back and forth between them. Cecilia and Clarice were doling out beef and broth and roasted vegetables, while Faiza oversaw the distribution of medical supplies, and tending to those who felt ill following the possession. Joanna’s strength lay in assisting some of the men in the building of a structurally sound storeroom, able to do the work that ten of them could have done, and in half the time. They were already underway in insulating a cellar, to keep meats and produce cold during the hot afternoons. Only Christian didn’t seem busy, but he, too, was at work, reading a story book to a boy she recognized as the dreamer. A small smile crossed her lips, glad there had been no love lost there.

When T’Challa noticed her skulking about, he waved her over. Cecilia seemed to catch his focus as well, the two of them arriving at the same time. The group of boys playing football dispersed at the new arrivals, leaving them to speak in moderate privacy.

“—That was a very foolish thing you did,” T’Challa said sternly, eying her. “But very brave.”

Cecilia said nothing, merely wrapping her in a tight hug, which Shan returned with some hesitation. The doctor’s quarrel seemed to ride with their benefactor, and not with her. “That wasn’t what I signed up for.”

He tilted his head curiously, pausing a moment. “Perhaps not in the manner you expected, but this village was our target location,” he explained. “Do you see those gates? Some of the men here have been expressing anger towards the… mutated members of the village. They’re kept separated, like animals. Given no name, no creature comforts. But, yet, they thrive. They have the ability to grow crops in days, not weeks or months. Abilities such as that bring jealousy — the boy we were after, he was a biological manipulator, one of the reasons the community was doing so well with what little they had. We came to Tunisia to foster better ties between the people. Show that mutants are nothing to be feared. I would say we’ve done a very good job of it.”

A small smile formed on Cecilia’s lips, but her eyes narrowed. “And you think the armistice will last, or will the gates be locked again as soon as we leave?”

“It’s difficult to say, but look around you. People are smiling. Laughing. Enjoying themselves.” He scratched his chin, nodding. “That’s more than you can say for other communities, ones turned on their head because of new mutants. They need us, Doctor Reyes, even if they don’t always appreciate the assistance.”

She nodded. “That’s why I would like to extend my welcome,” she said, glancing up. “As long as things stay relatively normal, and relatively quiet, you can consider me part of the team.”

“I was hoping you would say that,” he replied.

“Me too,” Karma said, the faintest of smirks forming at the corner of her lips, one that she didn’t remember making in the seconds after its fading. “Always nice to have a familiar face when you’re trying to save the world.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The number of times Shan has faced off with an enemy and lost control of her own mind is staggering. In fact, I'm hard pressed to remember a storyline of hers that didn't involve her inability to control her powers, or trust her own mind. And frankly, as a New Mutants fan, I'm tired of it. The kids have grown up. They're X-Men now. They paid their dues and, despite until just recently still being on a team considered to be the New Mutants, they have every right to wear the X with the same pride as Wolverine or Storm. Karma seems to be the one excluded from a lot of those stories (as well as Amara). She is constantly providing for two young children, mothering not only them but her team as well. It takes a person with iron will and so much inner strength to go through what she goes through every day, I figured it was high time she got a happy ending. Even Marjorie Liu, whose depiction of Karma I was ultimately pretty okay with, used the standard tropes of her mind being taken over. 
> 
> Well, let me tell you something, Marvel Comics. The Xi'an Coy Manh I fell in love with isn't going to let that happen to her ever again.


End file.
